A Hole in the Head
by Lonestarr
Summary: The memories that come back to us in life are never the ones we want to remember.
1. Thank God It's Friday?

Disclaimer: This is one of the darkest stories I've ever written. You might not recognize the characters used, but trust me: they're the same people. If you're a devotee of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon, you might be a little shocked. Entertained, but shocked.

_Okay, this is weird. I'm falling...no. I'm...flying through the sky. How did I get here and why are my arms stretched out like this? And the way I'm yelling...I can't be enjoying this. I can't even remember how I got here to begin with. There's only one way to describe this: _

_"EXTREME"!_

Whoa! What the hell was that? If my eyes weren't open before, they sure as hell are now. I wonder what it means. I know I wasn't falling. I heard many times as a kid that if you fall in a dream, it means that you fear failure. Nah. No way that was it. After all, how can you fear something as inescapable and inevitable as snow in the winter? All you can do is survive and endure it. Maybe I can get back to sleep. I just need to get...comfortable...

Damn. I may as well get out of bed, 'cause I know there's no freakin' way I'm going back to sleep.

God. Every day when I wake up, I feel just...stiff, like I've been in a coma. Maybe it's a side effect of sleeping so well. I don't know. I just need to get to the bathroom before I fall over. Why is this hallway so long? And why does the sun have to be so...bright? It's always brightest at the beginning at the day. Just need to get my eyes adjusted to the light.

Huh. Thought I saw someone out the window just now. Okay, so I didn't see someone, but I did see the ragged curtains move a bit. I know it wasn't the wind; it's supposed to be a clear day out. Eh, it's probably nothing. Besides, who the hell would have any interest in me?

I rest my hand on the tile of the shower as the water washes over me. Even in the morning, there are some things that you just can't understand. Why was I flying through the air? And, more importantly, why did I yell out "Extreme!"? Uhhh!

If ever there was a word ruined by popular culture, it's this one. I was leaving a convenience store one night when I saw them: about a half-dozen of those so-called extreme sports jerks, drinking beer, doing skateboard tricks and shouting that hated word. I even saw them hassling a couple of guys who were just minding their own business. 'Extreme'. Extreme retardation is more like it.

Well, I'm dressed and ready for work. Plain white overshirt and pants. I once heard a saying: "Beware of enterprises that require you to wear new clothes." That guy _must've_ had my job in mind when he first said that. Whoop. Almost forgot my keys. Don't want that to happen...like it did a couple of weeks ago. The landlord was not happy to see me. That guy is never happy to see anybody, unless they pay the rent on time. For one day a month, he's Mr. Rogers. Farewell, crappy apartment. We'll be seeing each other again.

XxXxXxXxX

Damn, it's cold. Damn sun tricking me again. Why am I out here waiting for the bus? Right, because my rustbucket, piece of crap car felt like dying on me the other day. The cost to get it fixed is way more than I have right now. Ah, driving is overrated, anyway. It's a good thing the stop is right outside the building. You can never be too careful with some of the whack-jobs out there. Always at you about something or other.

Oh. The bus is here. I tend to get lost in thought whenever I wait for it. So much so that I'm always a little surprised when it gets here.

XxXxXxXxX

And here I thought I wouldn't get back to sleep. I've been nodding off for the last twenty minutes. I don't know. Buses seem to have that effect on me. It most likely goes back to school; a nice little preparation for the day's activities. Get some winks in, then fake interest if someone tries to talk to me. Except for the winks, very little has changed.

Not that I have too much to worry about on this bus. It's a forty-minute ride, and where I'm heading is the last stop. I've seen people fall asleep and miss their stops. The crying, the swearing, the moaning...it's kind of entertaining, in a way.

"Last stop! Everybody off." The driver growls at me, the one person left on the bus. The way he sounds makes it seem like he's two mishaps away from camping out in a clock tower with a Remington rifle for company. As I get off, I notice the irritated look on his face. I have to thank God a thousand times over that this town doesn't have a clock tower.

The vehicle speeds off, and I head toward the building. After all this time, I can't get over the way this place looks from the outside. The architecture gives it a gothic look, like you expect to be broken on some old torture devices, or, at the very least, have your blood drained. Those architects must have been psychic.

I go in and give a wave to the receptionist behind the desk. A heavy-set woman who's on the phone. She's always on the phone, even when it's not work-related. Outside of her rudeness, I have no real reason for a grudge, so I'm willing to let it go. I head down a hallway past a number of rooms. The moaning gets louder with each step. In the course of a year, it's funny how used to it I've gotten.

The gauntlet is cleared. It's 8:59. I punch in.

"Turner!" I turn around. It's Ralph. "You almost didn't make it."

"I do what I can." I offer him a shrug and walk away. He's been here for a good ten years. Every week, he pulls that 'you almost didn't make it' crap, all because I get here a minute before my shift starts. I _always_ make it.

I pass through the halls of the building. It's a pretty good job...all things considered. The pay is decent and the actual work is easy. Now, I'm not what could be considered lazy; to end up where I am now is because of a lack or abundance of laziness. It's all in how you look at it. It's just that my duties are...

"Turner to 216 with fresh bedding. Turner to 216 with fresh bedding."

...interesting.

Got a fresh load of bed sheets with me. Of all the things they could be needed for: blood from cutting, getting ripped apart, sudden bowel expulsion. God, why is this elevator taking so damn long? Screw it. I'm taking the stairs. And there's the ding. Shit.

There's Ellis, a crooked smile on his face. Everyone says he still wets the bed. A man in his 30s? Fat freakin' chance! I say he stands over the bed pissing on it. This happens every couple of weeks. The son of a bitch does it for attention. We both know that. The others think I'm making it up. Why I would make something like this up, I can't imagine.

Whoa. One thing's certain: we're gonna need a new mattress in here.

It's a good twenty minutes before a new mattress arrives. I set it on the base and put on the cover. Next goes the sheet and the pillowcase. This looks like a nice bed. I don't recall making my own bed this neat when I was a kid.

I walk out of the room, an annoyed grunt from my lips. Man, every one of the rooms on the floor looks the same: same ugly paint job, same Plexiglas windows, same type of clipboards. These show the diagnoses of each of our residents. In the end, all of them tend to bleed together. To me, they're just people with mental problems...just like the people allowed to roam the streets freely.

Just a matter of time before I get called for something else. Huh, that's weird. The name on this one clipboard looks familiar. 'Denzil...Crocker'. I think I know that guy. He was a teacher at my school. He believed in fairy godparents. Can't believe I never noticed him here before.

A woman walks by, no older than my m... she's pretty for her age. Let's go with that.

"Hey, Dr. Yancy."

"Yes?" She turns around, a friendly look on her face. Don't get too many of those around here.

"About this guy, here. Crocker, I think his name is. How long has he been here?"

"Oh. This is a most unusual case. He's been bounced from institution to institution for the better part of a decade. Suffered from paranoid delusions: fairies or some such nonsense. He arrived here sometime last week."

"Huh. He's not dangerous, is he?" Maybe he's not, but why don't I let someone with a psychiatric degree make that call.

"Gauging the patients here, on a scale of one to ten...six."

In the time I've been here, I've been attacked by two patients. In both cases, they thought I was someone who had wronged them in their lives. I know how to handle myself, but I really shouldn't have to. I'm not a violent person. I wonder if he'd even recognize me.

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad."

"You just let me know if you need anything else." And off she goes. I don't think I'll need much else from her, but it was nice of her to ask.

Still...damn my curiosity. I look through the Plexiglas window embedded in the door. I see him lying on his bed. The weird thing is that he looks like he's...smiling. He really does belong here if he's smiling.

Whoa! I duck away from the window. His head turned toward it. Memories can get pretty fuzzy the further away you are from them, but I do remember this: he did not like me at all. Good thing that no one's around. That'd be just what I need...me scared of a mental patient.

I walk away. This isn't worth thinking about. Unfortunately, the rest of the day is.


	2. Lazy Saturday

4:56pm. Holy crap, what a day. God, I need to sit down. There's usually an empty bucket to sit on in here. The janitor's closet is pretty small, the light flickers on and off at the worst times, and it stinks like cleaning products. Why the hell did I decide to hide in here? Oh, right...

I had to clean some vomit on the third floor...and the second floor...and the basement...and the freakin' elevator to the basement! Each pile of the stuff stunk worse than the one before. The guys responsible for it didn't even apologize. I know they can't really control it, but...I don't care if it is my job. A little courtesy every so often really helps.

Maybe I shouldn't worry too much about this closet. No one comes in here except the guy that's supposed to be here and he's got the flu. His replacement never got here today. Probably out doing better things with his time. Lousy life-having bastard.

Somehow, it was still better than the best day of my last job. Don't really care if somebody finds me in here. I need to lay low.

XxXxXxXxX

I stumble a little on my way to the break room. Interesting that the time clock would be in here. I glare at the sign next to it: "This clock will never be stolen. The employees are always watching it." So it's true: not everything that sounds like it should be on a T-shirt is funny. My coat is already in my hand. A few strokes on the worn numbers of the keypad and boom! Free as a bird, baby.

I gather enough enthusiasm to walk to the door, past the front desk. Yeah, I'm pretty glad the day's over. After all, it's the longest possible time before more work. How can I not feel a little confident?

"Turner!" A tobacco-laced voice calls out to me.

Oh, great. In all the time today to say something, having passed by her about five times, she picks _now_ to notice me. Just as I'm on the verge of freedom. I scowl a little as I turn toward her. By the time I get to the desk, the scowl is just a memory.

"Yes?" I strain a little. Who knows what she might do if she knew how much I despise her at this moment.

She hands me an envelope with my name on it.

"You forgot your check."

"Oh!" I hit my head like an idiot and take the envelope from her pudgy, nicotine-stained fingers. "Thank you." Fake sincerity is better than none at all, I always say...well, I should start saying it, anyway.

I just can't wait. Like the proverbial carrot on a string, it's what keeps me going. The moment I'm out the door, I rip the envelope open like a lion with raw meat. Screw paper cuts and screw patience! Wow. Over three hundred big boys. I knew there was a reason I got out of bed this morning.

XxXxXxXxX

Damn. It's even colder than it was this morning. I thought this was supposed to be spring. Gotta rub my hands for warmth. Where is that damn bus? It's been 30 minutes since work ended. Damn bus company. Damn freezing weather. Damn me for not wearing gloves.

Usually, it's because the damn bus broke down. And wouldn't this be a perfect time for it? I don't know. Maybe working in an asylum is getting to me...or maybe it's part of the problem.

I can make out a pair of headlights in the distance. Ah-ha! I'd recognize the front of the bus in a fog. It's about damn time.

XxXxXxXxX

Yeeesh! The smell hits me the moment I get on. It's like a mix of body odor, urine and some kind of cheese. There's always just one of them. It's never all of the above. So, what's my poison: freeze for twenty more minutes or suffer this new form of psychological warfare?

I sigh in defeat...as I step on the bus and pay the stinkin' fare, no pun intended. Perhaps I'll get used to it, or my eyes will water and eventually bleed from the stench. As long as I get home safe, it shouldn't be too bad.

I look around for a seat. I head toward the back. Good Lord, how do these people not notice that odor! They're probably used to it. Hell, they more than likely caused this atmosphere. The vehicle pulls off. I get nice and comfortable in a seat next to a window, like always. My check is safe in my coat pocket. Like I always say, you can't be too careful.

I'm a little tired from work. I should be careful not to get too comfy and fall asleep. It's not so much missing my stop as it would be the bus hitting a pothole, waking me up in an instant. Even worse, some jack-off shakes me, telling me, 'Hey. Don't miss your stop.' Either way, I'm a real bastard when I wake up before I want to.

XxXxXxXxX

Wow. Here I am, back at my building. That was a pretty good bus ride, even with the ungodly stench. It's a half-hour ride back to town with all the stops. That made for a fairly smooth (and incident-free) trip. No one woke me up, except for the driver, of course. I guess the people were too pre-occupied with the smell.

I open the door of my apartment and toss the keys in a nearby chair. Next, the coat and my work shirt. Just like shackles being cast off by a prisoner. Unfortunately, they'll have to be put on again. But I have the whole weekend to not worry about that.

Huh. The red light on the answering machine is beeping. One message. I guess it beats having telemarketers on your ass about something. I hit the button. Whoever it could be, it might offer a nice change.

_"Hello, Timmy!"_ Oh, God. Only one person ever calls me that, never mind the fact that I'm 26 years old.

_"This is your mother." _Well, of course, it is. _"Well, of course, it is."_ Of course, she has to laugh, like that was in any way funny. I know better.

_"I hope you've been doing well."_ I know she thinks she does. She didn't care all that much when I was living at home. Why the hell would she want to start now!

_"It would be nice if you could visit us sometime." _I'd sooner drink battery acid out of an unflushed toilet.

_"Your father and I miss you." _Yeah...right!

_"We hope to see you soon."_ I stick my finger in my throat as far as it can go.

_"Bye, honey!"_ Yeah, bye yourself. I can't believe I let the whole thing play out. What kind of masochist would...? No. I'm not going to let it bother me. Not when I'm trying to relax. It's not that I hate my parents. It's just that, after all these years, I can't stand being in the same room as them. Yes, there is a difference.

Oy. One of the few things in life worse than having too much to do is having nothing to do. I could veg out in front of the TV...that is if there were anything worth watching. All I used to watch were cartoons and the occasional rerun of a classic sitcom. I never thought I'd say this, but cartoons just aren't worth watching anymore.

Like this one show where this obnoxious girl berates the lead character, but deep down, she's hot for his jock. Oh, and we're supposed to root for her. Yeah, somebody on that writing staff is doing serious blow. And there's this other show about this kid with these...I think they were mystical creatures and how they got into these crazy situations. It started out when they substituted toilet humor with actual jokes, but the shit really hit the fan when they had the characters firing these unfunny insults at one another, almost like the writers were preparing for stand-up comedy routines that didn't have a shot in hell of succeeding past the first 30 seconds of open mike night.

This is too much to have on my mind right now. I'm just gonna flip around and see what happens. All these channels and there's nothing on. It's criminal. Ah. I just love how relaxed I feel in this chair. It's almost like a second bed. (Still flipping...) I feel my head lean back. My vision blurs a little. (Still flipping...) My muscles - well, what little I have - start to relax. Vision blurring a lot, now. (Still...) The remote slips from my hand and the last thing I hear before I'm totally out is the thing hitting the floor. I hope it doesn't break...

XxXxXxXxX

_Wow. This is a pretty fancy restaurant. I don't think I've ever been to one like this before, with all the celebrity pictures on the wall and everything. What the--? Why am I looking at the ceiling? I must be on the ground now and it feels like something's holding me down. What did I ever do to...my teeth! Why is this guy trying to yank out my teeth...and, more importantly, why isn't anyone trying to stop him!_

XxXxXxXxX

Augh! Jesus! What a nightmare. But it felt so real. That's the weird part. Oy! What's on now? I glance to the clock on the wall. It's one in the morning. My eyes head back to the screen. Yep. Some stupid infomercial praising the imaginary virtues of some stupid product I wouldn't be caught dead borrowing if I lived to be a thousand.

Shit. I may as well get to bed. Ugh. I'm so stiff. And to think, I'm about to resume my stiffness in bed, never mind how comfortable it is. I feel like a living coma patient...well, no. That's not right. Coma patients are alive. They just can't move around. A _moving_ coma patient. Yeah, that sounds better.

I pass by my window. Did those curtains in the other building just...? No. This is nothing to waste time on at one in the freakin' morning. I'm going to sleep and there's not a damn thing to make that otherwise.

XxXxXxXxX

Ah! There's the sun beaming in through the window, right in my eyes. God, I hate that. Ugh. I'm stiff again. I struggle to get out of bed. I got to get going. I have nothing better to do now. After all, it's...Saturday, right? Okay, it was Friday yesterday, so, logically, it has to be Saturday. Given the drivel on television now, it's hard to believe there was once a time where I'd look forward to getting up to watch it.

I get dressed. I don't really have any plans for the day. Just the bank and...out, somewhere. All I need that's clean is a pair of underwear. Nothing too dressy; just something that lets me breathe. I grab my check and I'm out the door.

XxXxXxXxX

Good grief, what a line. Looks like everyone needed to cash their check today. I figured they'd go to the store. Of course, they would had to have a check cashing card - registered, naturally - and a driver's license. Wow, that takes me back. Back to the three years I toiled in the customer service department at the grocery store. What didn't I do there? Selling lottery tickets and cigarettes, cashing checks and processing utility payments to the weirdest, most irritating collection of 'quote-unquote' human beings in the history of the world. You might say I grew to love the job. But, then again, that could be the Stockholm Syndrome talking.

The stories I could tell. Like this one woman paying a gas bill. Nothing too unusual...then she pulls the money out of her bra. Now, if the woman had been my age or, at the very most, fifteen years older than me, I could've let it go. A little show to ease my misery...but this broad was my mom's age and a lot heavier! I couldn't eat for a couple days after that, and whatever I tried to gorge on came back to me in living color on the bathroom floor.

Another time, I was mopping up. Taking out bins of plastic bottles is pretty messy work. That's when I hear it:

"Excuse me!"

I'm trying to work and there's this old lady, screeching away:

"Ex_cuse_ me!"

She sees I'm busy, doesn't she? Unbe-freakin'-lievable! She's been around for, what, a hundred years and she hasn't learned any manners? What the hell was she doing with her life!

Speaking of bottles, people would turn them in with the most vile crap in them. One would think that this job would start me on the road to a drinking problem, but, given what I saw, that was just the thing to _stop_ a drinking problem.

XxXxXxXxX

It's about an hour and a half later, and I'm closer to the front. Another thing I hated was that it was a job for kids working their way through high school and college. Sooner or later, they left for better, not-so-excruciating lines of work, and yet, I was still there, watching my life passing me by. One day, I just got sick of it. I took off my work shirt, flipped off the people in line and stormed out. I caught so much hell from my parents, but it was worth it. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is worth losing your soul.

I look behind me. Man, some of these folks have no lives. A few people behind me, halfway from the door, is this chick with pink hair. She looks a good deal older than me. In fact, she's kind of hot, in a 'repressed high school teacher, would you care to stay after class, Mr. Turner?' sort of way, not that I ever fantasized about my teachers, especially not Mrs. Iverson, with her tight sweaters, tighter hairdo and nice, round...

"Next!"

Eyes.

Will wonders never cease? I approach the window.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?"

"Well..." I read her name tag. "Tootie." It reads 'Ginny'.

"My name is Ginny, _sir_."

"Not always." Ah, she knows I like screwing with her.

"What can I do for you this morning?" Her teeth are gritted by now. I've got her.

I whip out my check. "Well, I'd like to deposit this. All except a hundred."

"Certainly, and did you fill out a deposit slip?" I groan, as do a number of people behind me. She slides one towards me, a superior smile on her face. That's one for her.

I give it back to her. She runs the check through the machine. I don't pretend to know what the exact mechanics of her job are. All I know is that she gives me my money, and that's good enough for me.

"Here you are, sir."

"So, what do you say about getting out of here and talking?"

"I could only do that when my shift ends, sir."

"And when is that?"

She looks at the clock. 11:55am. She sighs in defeat.

"Five minutes."

XxXxXxXxX

Often, she has to work a half-day on Saturdays. As she's told me time and time again, she hates the front half, but it's better to get it out of the way. I walk through the park. It's as nice as it ever was. I take a seat on a bench and look around. My eyes dart away from the brightness of the sun. It always seems brighter the older you get. I can feel something set down next to me on the bench.

"Hey." I glance to see her facing straight ahead.

"Hey." We're not at any real place for 'Hello.'

"How goes it?"

"Same story. Crazy people acting crazy. You?"

"Same. At least there's an excuse where you're at."

"Well, I guess so." Yep. The good life.

"Anything new happen in your life?"

"Well, I've been having these dreams."

She doesn't even turn to look at me. "What kind of dreams?"

"Uh...erotic dreams. They involved you, silk sheets and lots of pudding."

"Ah, wet dreams, of course. Can't help you there, sport." She may put up a front, but I know she has them, too...or least, did. She got tired of waiting for me, so we became...well, not enemies, but certainly not friends. "But maybe I could help you write some new material. The last time we spoke, it was a story about me on a trampoline wearing nothing but a smile."

"Okay, so they weren't erotic dreams, per se, but they were weird. In one dream, I'm flying through the sky and. in another, some guy's trying to rip my teeth out."

"Sounds crazy, but then, you are an expert."

How she loves to bust my balls. I can hardly hear what she's saying, now. Still, I got to have someone to talk to. All of my real friends left a long time ago; before, during or after college. For some reason, I stayed, and so did she. She... She looks as stunning as ever. I can't help but stare. Not a beauty queen, but definitely a girl worth fantasizing about. One would think those librarian glasses of hers would take away from her sexiness, but they somehow add to it. Her long, dark hair, the modest curve of her breasts, the smoothness of her skin, her beautiful legs that...

"Tim! Were you screwing me with your eyes again!"

"No! No, no...well, maybe a little."

"I thought we established something: don't look, and certainly don't touch."

"Well, excuse me all over the place."

"Nothing has happened, and won't ever happen. Besides, as long as I have my memories, my imagination and the feeling in my right hand, I don't need you."

"Nicely put." I turn away from her. "Speaking of bitter harpies, how is your sister?"

"Oh. She and Olivia are doing fine." For some reason, I should've suspected a lot sooner than I did that Vicky had been a pie-eating champion. College opens a lot of room for discoveries. Just as much a knockout as Ginny - only with red hair. What a tragic loss for men, everywhere. "Though I'm not exactly clear on how it's any of your damn business."

"Don't I have a right to know about your family, especially if someone in that family had a mission in life to ruin mine?"

"Speaking of ruining your life, how are you parents?"

"Mom called last night. She wants me to visit, _again_."

"And?"

"I'll get back to them when I feel like it."

"'When you feel like it'. You're pretty goddamn picky for someone without friends...or discernible social skills."

"Point, but that doesn't change things."

And so it goes on for the next...hour or so. I get so lost in these little talks, the concept of time just evaporates. It beats the hell out of talking to myself and her roommates aren't exactly masters of social graces. One is a secretary who buries herself in food and romance novels, while the other has delusions of being a supermodel, even though she's pretty much a telephone pole with stringy hair. Funnily enough, the three of them were all outcasts in school. No one paid any attention to them. Amazing that Ginny would be the hot one.

Maybe if I hadn't fucked things up so determinedly, so consistently... Nah. This is just one more thing I shouldn't be dwelling on. I could write a book on the things I wish I had done in life.

XxXxXxXxX

I take a walk around the town. It's amazing how so much has changed in the last few years. It hasn't been for the better. It never seems to matter how it looks outside; this place still looks like crap. It's just one horse away from becoming a one-horse town. I glance at the sky. The sun is setting. Were me and Ginny talking for that long? That has to be a record. I better get home. Don't wanna get caught out after dark. That's when the...element rears its ugly head.

One would never have thought of this town as a breeding ground for criminals, but that's what happens when the local moneybags skips town, allowing the place founded by his ancestors to fall into utter decay. These things happen.

The guy that moved in and took over was this obnoxious trust-fund brat who made all these changes: coffee houses, stores that sold overpriced novelties that, within months, would end up in garage sales, adult entertainment. As one would expect, there haven't been too many complaints about that last one. Just from soccer moms with no better ways to spend their time while hubby's "working late", code for diddling the secretary. The guy has some stupid, fake-sounding, 'too rich for a real name' name: Buxaplenty. I think I read about him in some magazine.

XxXxXxXxX

Ah, home crap home. Nothing more to do but wait for tomorrow. Don't have the damnedest idea what I'll do, but one thing is certain: it will involve nothing.

Oh, the phone. Better not be Mom or Dad. I don't have it in me to--

"Hello... But I'm not supposed to...! Can't you find some...! All right, all right. Fine. I'll be there."

Jesus! I have to work tomorrow...on my day off. Somebody's laughing at me, I know it. If so, they're the only one. On the bright side, that extra cash will go a long way toward healing this pain.


	3. Bloody Sunday

Shit.

I can't believe I'm at the institution. All I wanted to do today was stay at home and...I don't know. Sleep, I guess. I kind of gave up on church sometime during college. It's not that I'm an atheist. It's just that when you ask God for things again and again and not a single one of them is fulfilled, the point of asking...hell, the point of what He wants you to hear gets lost. Still, church sounds like a good alternative to this.

Shit.

The bus took forever to get to my apartment. Damn bus company and their bastard scheduling. Fine. I'm punched in. Hopefully, I can get through the day doing as little as possible. Maybe then, I'll get the Sunday I wanted to have.

XxXxXxXxX

It's not just the moaning that gets to you when you walk down the halls. It's the smell. It's so...sterile. Just clean. Like when you enter a hospital, only multiplied by ten. I'm forced to imagine Howard Hughes' pad smelling like this toward the end. I've heard my share of patients worrying that germs are out to get them. In some strange way, they're not far from wrong.

I guess when you're very young or very old, you're more likely to catch germs. Screwed-up immune system, probably. When you're around my age, the immune system must be at full strength, so, even though there's the occasional cold, you're pretty healthy most of the time. All I really need is a bowl of soup, maybe an orange or two, and I'm good--

Whoa. Just great. There he is again.

"Now, you just need to relax and let the medicine do its work." Dr. Yancy is pushing him in a wheelchair. "Do you understand?"

He seems only to offer a grunt. Probably doesn't feel like talking. Can't fault him too much. If I was a guest here, I wouldn't talk much, either.

"Don't worry, Mr. Crocker. We're here to help you. Now, we just need to get you back to your room so you can rest."

Sounds like they're coming this way. I'm not in the mood for awkward, especially not on Sunday. I turn around. What luck. An elevator. I hit a button. I don't even look to see which one. Whatever gets me to somewhere else.

A few more button pushes. Can't this thing move any faster?

A ding. Safe at last. I slip into the doors and sigh for relief.

"Oh. Can you hold that elevator, please?"

Whoa! Not good. Come on. 'Door close'? Door close, now!

Oh, Lord. That was too close. The car seems to be moving downward. Interesting metaphor. This day is not turning out to be a particularly great one.

XxXxXxXxX

Another ding. The door opens. The basement. They keep so much down here. Fresh bedding, supplies, cleaning products.

I can just wander around down here for a while. The odds are pretty slim I'll be needed for anything today.

Whew! That smell! I'm just a magnet for these smells, aren't I? Not nearly as sterile as upstairs. Perhaps 'cause we're closer to the sewers...but...wait...that's not the sewer. That smells like...a weird mix of aerosol and farts. Jesus! I can hear giggling, too.

I rush down the hall to an open door. It must be a closet or something...

_"Okay, okay. Be quiet. Somebody's coming."_

"Whoa!"

"Hey! What up?" They don't sound very happy to see me.

It's a couple of guys dressed in the same over shirt as me. They're as pale as I am. That's the most notable thing about them. Also, they each have aerosol cans in their hands.

"Do you guys even work here?" I feel my eyes widen at the sight.

"Damn straight!"

"What's it to you, dumb-ass?"

"We're on the night shift!"

"Yay-yay!" They high-five and go back to their hobby.

I leave them alone. I can't help but wonder how low the standards were when those guys were hired. I ran across guys like that in school. Instead of a closet, it was the boy's room and instead of air freshener, it was whipped cream cans pilfered from the lunch staff. Good times.

Damn. Why did I have to mention lunch? I'm freaking starving. Why didn't I get something before I left? Could've gotten a bowl of cereal. I think I left some dishes in the sink. It's really just a couple of plates and a bowl. Who needs any more than that when you live on you own? Maybe I should go shopping, but not at my ex-place of employment. I'd hate to do any major shopping at a convenience store. The limited selection, the cramped spaces. Ugh. Fine! Seventh circle of Hell, it is! But no one better dredge anything up.

"Turner to the cafeteria. Turner to the cafeteria." A woman's voice crackles over the intercom.

Kitchen duty. Splendid.

That may seem sarcastic, but I really do mean that. Just washing dishes. Not having to deal with a lot of people. Sweet.

XxXxXxXxX

Not that I'm one of those guys who likes being alone _all_ of the time. I just value my privacy is all.

A lot of the patients have their meals delivered to them. There's no need for any "episodes". I haven't heard any complaints about the food and I can't imagine why I would. It's not quite fancy eating, but it's a few notches above school lunches.

I gotta say this beats washing the dishes at home. Not mine; the one I lived at when I was a kid. For one thing, these dishes are done on a semi-regular basis.

In the last few years before I left, the dishes were, more often than not, piled near the sink. Sure, I did them every once in a while, but there were, including myself, three people living there. One person out of three doing the dishes is just stupid.

This is probably what it was like for the cafeteria staff. Cleaning trays, putting up with ungrateful punks like me. Karma's a funny thing. Not quite funny 'ha-ha', but funny 'that's interesting'.

I look up at the clock. 11:55am. Time flies when you're not thinking about it too much. I toss the washcloth into the sink of now-dirty water and walk off.

"Where are _you_ headed?"

I turn around. This woman here reminds me of the lunch lady at school. Same hefty build, same hairdo, same scowl.

"Well, I was gonna look for something else to do."

"Look no further." She motions to a cart with trays. "It's lunch time and hungry patients are dangerous ones." On each of the trays are what looks like Salisbury steak, macaroni and cheese, sliced carrots and a roll. Yep. This is the same kind of meal we got in school.

"All right. Fine." The slow squeaking of the cart as I walk off makes for an interesting substitute to any argument I could've put up.

"Oh, and Turner?"

I turn around. "Yes?"

"Nice seeing you again."

I squint at the woman. "No." It _is _her.

A hearty laugh from her. "Things sure have changed since Dimmsdale Elementary, huh?"

You have no idea.

XxXxXxXxX

The second floor and I have more meals to deliver. Well, most of them have been delivered already. All except one. I've passed this room about five times and each time, I've debated about whether or not I should go in.

Christ, don't tell me I have to go in there. I've been able to deal with schizos, guys with from irritable bowel syndrome and OCD sufferers, but this is too much. I know the guy. Then again, I could get into trouble for not getting him his food and trouble is not really what I want on a Sunday, of all things.

Shit.

I open the door and wheel in the cart. He doesn't move at all. It's almost like he's propped up onto the backboard.

Ah, what the hell? The sooner I do this, the sooner I'm out of here.

"Hello. I've got your lunch."

No response. I wheel around to face him.

"I've got your lunch."

He moves his head up. He starts to scowl. "Turner." So he _does_ remember me. "What are you doing here?"

"Currently, trying to serve you lunch."

"Well, I hope you have some time to waste."

I raise an eyebrow. "Come again?"

He shifts from side to side. "I can't exactly move around and stretch my legs."

"If this is an act..."

"Unfortunately, it's no act. Muscle relaxers. I'm so doped up, I can only do one of two things: blink and talk, and, from time to time, it hurts to do either one."

Okay, so maybe he's not lying. After all, I remember his in-class spasms as clear as yesterday.

A smile on his face. "So, are you gonna feed me?"

"You can't be serious."

"I can't be, and yet, I am."

XxXxXxXxX

There are a number of things I never would have pictured happening to me. Turning in a term paper the day after it was announced is one. Spending my whole life in this town without seeing the world is another. Feeding a near-immobile loon of a teacher in an asylum can now be added to the list. Thank God the meal is just about done. I'm history.

"Wait. I think there's some gravy on my cheek."

"So lick it off." A little indignant, but it's not like it can be helped.

"If I could reach it, I wouldn't be talking to you about it."

"Oy!" I wipe off the glob of gravy and head for the cart. I wheel it toward the door.

"Turner!" It sounds like sadness in his voice, but it couldn't be... "Please stay. There's no one to talk to here, and I can be so boring sometimes."

Okay, I'm confused at that last part.

"So I talk to myself. Is that a crime!"

None that I know of. I walk back to his bed and sit on the edge.

"Who'd have thought you'd be working in a mental institution?"

Two can play at that game. "And who'd have thought you'd be staying in one? So, just how did someone like you end up in here?" I chuckle a bit. He shouldn't be too angry. I'm sure he gets this a lot.

"Well, there were a lot of occurrences some years ago with aliens and...fairies!" He tries to jump up, but can't quite make it. "You see the need for muscle relaxers, now?"

"Clearly. Please continue."

"For years, I tried to convince people of what I've seen, but they wouldn't listen. It drove me over the edge. And then came the men in white. I didn't stand a chance. They sent me to asylums all over the state. Each time, it was the same: I'd explain myself, then a new diagnosis. As bad as it was for me, it was much worse on Mother. A year after I was committed, she...died of a broken heart. There's not much to tell after that. How have things been for you?"

"Well, I went to high school. Went to community college. Got a crappy job. Moved out. Quit, then got a less crappy job."

He looks at me surprised. "And that's it?"

"Pretty much, except..."

"What?"

"I don't know. I've been having these dreams. This crazy stuff's happening to me, but it seems so real."

"Like what?"

"My teeth getting yanked out, flying through the sky. Just weird. I've never had these dreams before, and I'm only ten years old in them."

"You know, there was always something about you, Turner. I could never put my finger on it. I had this theory about the insane occurrences in your life. I'm not sure how, but your dreams might have something to do with it."

"All right. Enlighten me."

The man leans forward as best as he can. "Fairy godparents."

He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. Meanwhile, I stare at him like he just proposed marriage. "You know what?"

"What?"

"You belong in here." I get up and push the tray out of the room.

"Think about it, Turner. Everything has an explanation, no matter how crazy it sounds! Aaagh! Damn muscle relaxers."

I close the door and walk into the hall. Fairy godparents? That's the stuff of fiction. If Crocker thinks he's gonna Hannibal Lecter me, he better think again.

XxXxXxXxX

Huh. The clock reads 3:59pm. It looks like this day will soon be over...and not a moment too soon. Between those stoner freaks and Crocker planting that crap in my head, this is a Sunday to forget. It's kind of a late time for a break, I know, but I can't help it.

Wow. I can't say I noticed that before. There's a flier on the bulletin board: some psychologist is visiting in the next couple of days. "Jasmine Fenton". She looks kind of cute. Of course, I wouldn't have a chance with her.

Well, break's pretty much over. If I can fake it for the next hour, I think I'll be fine...

"And just what is the meaning of this!"

Ooh. That's the director, Mr. Pevner, and he does not sound happy. I peek my head out of the door. It's those two wannabe hoodrats from the basement. I figured their shift ended long ago.

"The cleaning products have been knocked over in the janitor's closet. There's solution everywhere!" Now that's apoplexy if ever I heard it. "What do you do even do here?"

"Well, um, sir, we, uh..."

"We take care of the cleaning during the night hours, and..."

"We, uh, make sure that the traps are cleared for any kind of...infestation."

He rubs his temples. This story isn't going to have a happy ending. "I ought to fire the both of you. As if this isn't bad enough, the basement is constantly smelling of aerosol."

"Oh, no!"

"Not on a Sunday!"

On the one hand, this is making for some fine entertainment. On the other, I don't know these two well enough to wanna see them canned. Guess I'd better rescue them.

"Uh, Mr. Pevner?"

"What is it, Turner?"

"Well, I was taking over for the janitor. He was out Friday, you know. I put away the products, but they must've spilled over. The odor might have gotten into the grate." So I'm no Hemingway. But if it's good enough for him...

Pevner gives the two burnouts a disparaging look, then turns back to me. "Turner, as this is a first offense, I'm willing to let it go, but you will be written up. As for you two...stay out of trouble."

He walks off and the two of them make faces at him. They surround me soon after.

"Oh, thanks, yo."

"I ain't got a lot but this job."

"Don't mention it. You really ought to be more careful." I walk down the hall in search of something to kill the next 55 minutes.

"Hey!"

I turn back. "Yes?"

"Some of us guys are going out after work. You wanna come?"

"Hmmm. I'm gonna be going home. After all, I gotta work tomorrow."

"But it'll be a lot of fun."

In a dead-end existence like this, the opportunity for fun is not something at which to turn up one's nose. Then again, who knows what these guys do for fun? I've never seen the fascination with getting high. Sure, you're happy for a bit, but you come down, and your problems are right there waiting for you. Ah, screw it. I'm up for anything. "What did you have in mind?"

XxXxXxXxX

"The Pink Sink. Classy." The bouncer, a bulky-looking dude, brushes me and the guys in. Holy crap. Semi-naked women just walking around, grinding on stage while guys ogle them and wave money at them. The smell of stale beer hits me. The throbbing music bleeds into my subconscious. In my wildest dreams, I would never have imagined it. Sure, I flipped past cable specials about this, but a few frames burned into my brain hardly compare.

Now, I'm no prude, but I've never had any real desire to go to a place like this. Not just for the ambience, but for the people, whose decorum goes right out the window. I can't stand the whistling and the hollering. Don't these guys know that there's much to be said for a standing ovation...even when you're sitting down?

Out the corner of my eye, I see someone who seems familiar. At least, I'm pretty sure... Fortunately, the odds of seeing someone I know in a place like this are as good as getting struck by lightning twice.

I look around and see the guys. They're already parked at the same table, perhaps looking for a dance. I swing around and spot the semi-familiar shape. I can't help but wonder if I've been working too hard. That couldn't be...

"Ladies and gentlemen, The Pink Sink presents, for your viewing pleasure...Miss Sparkle!"

She steps onto the stage, backed by techno-gunk that, under most circumstances, wouldn't even be considered music. Her high heels serve as a foundation to a pair of the longest legs I've ever seen. She's wearing a black bra, a matching thong and a wicked smile, as if to say 'You want me. I know you want me. Too bad it's not gonna happen.' Her long dark hair flies around as she does. And those eyes. You could never find your way out. The sparkly glitter does a nice job framing them.

Trixie Tang really grew up.

My eyes are transfixed as her limber figure graces the stage. Guys clamor over her, hoping to get her attention. I was a fool to think this would ever change.

She wraps her leg around the pole and does a spin. This really gets the guys going. Like they've never seen a woman spin on a pole before. She grabs the pole and climbs up a little, wrapping her legs around it and hanging upside down. Damn, is she flexible. She lets her feet hit the stage amidst loud yelling.

I look up at her. To my surprise, she meets my gaze. I seem to be the only person not screaming my head off for her. Sometimes, a standing ovation is all one needs.

"Hey. Why aren't you cheering me on?" Wait, back up. These guys are cheering her on?

"Well, I'm not much for raising my voice." Okay, except for now, but what can I do? I'm competing against twin streams of noise.

She leans in closer. "Oh, my God. I know you, don't I?"

"Yeah. Tim. We went to school together."

"Right." She returns to the stage and grinds the pole. "What's been going on with you?"

I think for a moment. "Nothing, really. You seem to be doing okay. I never would've imagined..." I extend my arms. "...you know, this."

"It's my life. I can do whatever I want."

I snort a little. "Well, whatever makes you happy."

She unhooks the straps of her bra, leaving its fate to gravity. "You know, you don't seem all that happy. What's up?"

I decided a long time ago that if I was gonna talk to a woman about my problems, I'd better be screaming them, at full volume, into the back of her head. Then again, this is a childhood dream of sorts. File this under 'better than nothing'.

"I just feel like...I don't know, I'm just wasting my life. It's the same routine, every day. I feel worthless, sometimes."

Another spin on the pole. "Oh. Well that sucks. I've found that, in my experience, things turn out shitty if you allow them to be. You just got to go out there and change things for the better. Tell off that guy giving you shit. Confess your feelings for that special girl." She gives me a wink with that last statement. A nice thought, to be sure, but that boat sailed a long time ago.

"Yeah, maybe."

"I think I can cheer you up."

"How?" She offers up her behind.

"Go on. Have a smack." I can't help but express confusion. "It's not like I do this for everyone." Given her attitude in high school, I'd have to argue otherwise, but she did give some good advice, so I guess I'll have to take her at her word.

I give her cheek a nice whack. She squeals in delight and, with another spin, her top loses the fight with gravity. My eyes widen at her spectacular jugs. I'm a little surprised when she shows them off, but then again, I'm really not. She disappears behind the curtains, leaving behind several depressed horndogs.

In hindsight, this probably should be seen for what it is: a desperate cry for help. The actions of a lost and lonely girl, for whom popularity means friendship and having your ass kissed means sound advice. And she's obviously been keeping in shape for all these years. She could easily be a gymnast or a supermodel. Instead, she's wasting her life here, among diseased strangers. Whether she's doing this as a living or a hobby, it's just wrong.

I don't care if you can bounce a quarter off of those cheeks of hers. She has no business being here.


	4. Manic Monday

_Good God, what a day. I've had a lunch tray dumped on me and, what's more, I feel like I've had a run-in with a Mack truck. I mean, my head is bandaged and my leg is in a cast. No way that one person, much less a bully, could've done this to me. What more could possibly happen?_

_"Presenting the world's slowest rocket launch!"_

_Wait. 'World's slowest...?' Okay, that's just weird. There's a plush doll of...me tied to that rocket. In spite of the blinding pain in my leg, I shuffle over to try and stop the launch. Whoa. The rocket is airborne. Yikes! It feels like I'm rising into the sky. But that's impossible. The only way that could be even remotely so is if that was...a voodoo doll? Getting higher... I'm getting light-headed... Can't hold out... Jesus Christ, somebody help me!_

Aaugh!

Another day, another chance to wake up in a cold sweat. What the hell do these dreams even mean? Am I the only person who has dreams like this? And, if so, what do they do to help themselves?

Shit. It's Monday. God, how I hate this feeling. The feeling when you wake up and realize that you have to go to work. Uhhhh! I'd better get ready, I guess.

XxXxXxXxX

Well, off I go into another boring day of...stuff. Whoa. The phone. Who could be calling me? It better not be Mom or Dad. I really couldn't handle that right before work. I pick it up.

"Hello." No response. "Hello?" I'm much more insistent. Who's gonna call me and not speak? "Hello!" Still nothing. To hell with this. I slam the phone down. No. No. If I let this get to me, it's gonna ruin my whole day. I'm out of here.

I glance up. The curtain across the street ruffles a bit. No. It's nothing. I'm leaving.

Here I am at the bus stop. It's still pretty early, so a number of yellow buses pass me by. Kids are heading off to school, which, as I recall, was a mental institution of a different kind.

I encountered a number of kids at my old job. I can't think of a single one that wasn't running around, crying or touching everything in sight like it was theirs. Add to that how obnoxious I was as a kid. Even if I could find the right woman, kids would not be an option. Given my experiences, I concocted a theory: only stupid people have children...and that includes _my_ parents. I don't play favorites.

Oh, good. The bus is here. Hopefully, some good will come of this day.

XxXxXxXxX

Well, at least the smell on this bus isn't as disgusting; kind of a mild body odor, like someone who hasn't bathed in a couple days.

I managed to talk to Trixie last night about her little...activity. As it turns out, stripping is a hobby. Her folks let her have whatever she wanted as a kid, which, in the long run, is not a smart way to parent. Trixie became overly dependent on them, and when they refused to put up with it, she rebelled. She smoked, drank, slept with whomever she fancied. (I wasn't on that guest list, natch.) Her parents pretty much cut her off, but not before she stashed some cash away in an off-shore account. She lives her life the way she wants now, though, for that reason, I can't help but pity her.

XxXxXxXxX

Here I am, once again. What time is it? I look up at the clock. 8:47. Well, that's a nice change. The moaning is still as strong as ever. It's times like this that I've really got to learn to tune it out.

I head for the break room. Some time to myself sounds really good.

This is a very small room; only a few inches taller than myself. The rectangular table has the same old stains on it. They've been here at least as long as I have. Bunch of slobs. I'm almost afraid to clean them off myself. Who knows what effect cleaning products may have on stains of this age? Man, my life must be shit if I'm thinking about this. Better thinking than just talking to myself. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but if you get caught, it's a real bitch to have to explain.

I don't think I've heard of asylum orderlies taking on characteristics of patients. Must be some rare form of hypochondria yet to be discovered. A lot of these guys talk to themselves. Hell, I've been known to talk to myself a lot, as far back as high school. Where the hell else am I gonna go for intelligent conversation?

I glance toward the vending machine. It's one of those old time deals that only takes coins. I might get a change purse were it not for the fact that a) they're a little hard to find and b) they look stupid. Of course, I'm not much for keeping it in my pocket. Too much hassle if I need something else out of there and the stuff spills onto the ground.

Man, I'm bored. What time is it now? 8:58. Better punch in. I really gotta learn not to vocalize my boredom. Sooner or later, it ends.

XxXxXxXxX

Here I am on laundry duty yet again. No bed-wetters this time, thank God, but the detergent, which can best be described as 'inexpensive', is another problem. I pour it in the washer and it feels so...chalky. With this in mind, I can't imagine how it gets these sheets clean. And the packaging is pretty strange, too; pink and green is a really weird combination. Wait...pink and green?

My vision starts getting blurry, like I'm gonna black out. I try to shake my head to get rid of it and, oddly enough, it works. It's like I'm trying to remember a piece of my past, but my mind won't let me. I need something to...I don't know, retrieve my memories. What I can't understand is why this is happening now.

XxXxXxXxX

Ah, lunch time. I can pretty much take or leave it. After all, it's just like school lunches. Besides, there's always the vending machine. Sure, they only take coins, but you can't beat that selection.

I head down the hallway and find it: a display window listing the people who work here and what they do. Let's see: Psychiatry, Psychology, Acupuncture...ah-ha! Hypnosis. And that is...Dr. Madsen. Some of these specialties seem a little odd here, but it's not something I feel like questioning too strongly.

XxXxXxXxX

This looks nice. An office filled with books and degrees and...oh, who gives a crap? I'm not here for a tour. I hear the door open.

"May I help you?" The middle-aged man doesn't look too happy to see me. He was probably going to meet some friends for lunch. Life's like that sometimes.

I rub the back of my neck. "Um, yeah. Over the last few days, I've been having these dreams. They feel so real, like they really happened, but I can't remember them. Maybe, these are just lost memories."

"Wait, aren't you an employee, here?"

"Very much, yes."

"Look. I'm desperately late for a lunch date..." Called it. "...so here's what I'll do: will you be available at...2:30?"

"I believe I will."

"Good. You can come by then and maybe I can help you."

"Thank you."

He grabs his coat and storms out, leaving me alone. There's a metaphor in there, somewhere.

XxXxXxXxX

This job can be boring, frustrating and unnerving, all at once. Even so, it's not all bad.

"Hey!"

"Hey." I pass by Jase, currently on the mop. I went to high school with him, inasmuch that we attended the same school. He was on the football team and I...wasn't. He hit on some bad times; his girlfriend screwed him and screwed him over, ruining his chances at going pro. Unfortunately, like a number of guys on the team, he didn't exactly have an education to fall back on. What's most surprising is that he doesn't hold a grudge. He started here a short while back. We talk from time to time. He's a good guy.

I turn a corner and my eyes widen. Looks like we've got a runner. Unbelievable. They know what's coming and we _still_ get at least two a week. From what I hear, they usually try this on the weekends, when they suspect no one will care.

"That man's nuts! Grab 'im!"

I force myself to stifle a chuckle. The people chasing him appear to have no clue why I'm laughing. Poor bastards.

My eyes fix on Jase. He steels himself. The guy charges toward him. Jase raises an arm. He swings it forward. The guy flips and hits the ground. An escaping mental patient clothes-pinned by a former high school linebacker...a sight without which life is incomplete.

The two people in pursuit catch up with Jase, who now holds the unlucky son of a bitch in his arms.

"Nice work, but, in the future, please be a little more...gentle with the patients."

He shrugs. "Sorry. My football instincts, you know? They never really go away."

One of the pursuers - a woman - picks up the quarry. "In any event, thanks for your help."

The people - I'm not sure; I'm guessing at this point they're doctors - escort the groaning man down the hallway. There's a rough way to spend your day.

Whoa. I don't want to be late for my appointment. This may well be what I need now.

XxXxXxXxX

"So, you think you might have lost memories?"

I have to hesitate a little. "Yes."

"Well, Tim, I can put you under, but you'll need to do something for me."

By now, I'm almost desperate enough to do anything. Not that this is the driving force in my life. I'm just...really curious. "What is it?"

"You work kitchen duty, right?"

"From time to time."

"Get me as many of those recipes as you can."

"Wait. Didn't you get back from lunch?"

"Going out so much is killing my wallet, and my wife...let me put it like this: she can't even make reservations."

"Ouch." An out-of-the-blue spousal insult. Now why does _that_ feel familiar?

"Can you help me?"

"Yeah. No problem."

"Thank you. Now, let's get to it." I lie on a couch and watch him pull out a watch. I guess the simplest methods are the best.

He swings the timepiece back and forth. "Now, focus on the watch. There is nothing but the watch..."

Will this even work? I mean, I hear about this all the time. What if I'm unable to be

XxXxXxXxX

Well, that was unusual. An hour has passed. I asked Dr. Madsen about what my memories may have revealed. There was nothing he told me that I didn't already know: inattentive parents, harsh school life, sociopath babysitter. Whenever I got to something involving the dreams, I just...shifted right to the history.

It was almost like...a jump cut in a movie. There were nothing but jump cuts for a time, making a mess of the narrative. At least my college career wasn't a complete waste; sitting in on those film courses was a lot of fun. If only I had known about and applied for them.

"I am at a loss here, Mr. Turner. Whatever memories you're trying to find, they're not in any hurry to _be_ found, it would seem."

"Shit. Thanks anyway, though."

"You know, at some point, you mentioned your parents. Maybe there's a chance they could help you."

I may be desperate, but I am not...oh, hell, I am that desperate. They might know something. They might have something, but the thought of having to deal with them again...

"You never know", I reply haltingly. Damn these stupid memories.

XxXxXxXxX

Now, I'm not the kind of guy who goes around repeating himself. It's a waste of time, thought space and breath, but I really, really don't want to be here. There are about twenty other places I'd rather be right now, twelve of which involve the phrase 'internal bleeding'.

The place still looks the same. Interesting that they would want me to fix it up and then, when I'm gone, not do a damn thing to it. The lawn looks pretty nice. At least, they've been keeping at that.

I should turn back. I've got enough going on in my life without having to deal with this. What the--

My feet must not have gotten that memo. I want to turn back around, but I can't. I don't want to do this. I'm not going to do this. I can't do this!

I ring the doorbell. I could always run away; pass it off as a practical joke. And what a joke. Yes, that's what I ought to do. Call me the Revolutionary War, 'cause I'm history.

"Timmy?"

Oh, crap. The door's open. There stands my mother, arms wide, gray streaks in her hair. This was a mistake.

"Oh, how have you been?"

"Fine. Listen. I've been having these dr--"

She takes my arm and drags me in. "Honey, look who's come to visit."

The old man - not just an expression, anymore - turns toward me. "Son! Great to see you." He gets up from the couch. "How have you been?"

"Well, I've been--" Whoa! A slap on the back. He's not as weak as one would assume. Even so, he hasn't been the same. In one of Mom's calls, I found out that downsizing has been running rampant in his company, and he's hanging by a thread.

"It's so nice to see you again." Of course she can't mean that. She leads me to sit down on the couch. Still feels the same. "What brings you here?"

I glance at her. She looks at me intently. Is she really interested? "Well, over the last few nights, I've been having these...strange dreams. It feels like they really happened to me, but I can't recall them happening."

"Hmmm. Sorry, but I don't recall anything like that in your childhood."

"Huh."

"You look famished. You should get some dinner. It's on the stove."

I get up and head for the kitchen. I have to admit that I could do with a home-cooked meal, even from this home. Fast food and microwave dinners can be satisfying to a certain point.

There it is in clear dishes: chicken, macaroni and cheese, string beans. Mom's learned to cook, apparently. I open the cupboard to grab a plate. There aren't any. I grit my teeth as I glance toward the sink. Just about every dish is in there. I could possibly, _maybe_ understand if no one ever came over. Hell, if I wasn't here right now, this would be just fine. This brings me right back to why I had to get the hell out of here all those years ago.

They never paid attention to me. All they did was screw around while leaving me in the care of a red-headed sadist with a great ass. Then I got older. Didn't need a babysitter anymore. I grew up...so I got to do more work around the house. After a while, I was the _only_ person to do any work. Taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, cleaning the toilet. You name it, I was unlucky enough to have to do it. They took advantage of me. We all knew that, but I can't imagine what's worse: that it was so obvious, or that I didn't say anything in protest.

I grab the dish detergent and squirt some onto the dishes. I let the water run over them. Maybe it'll loosen some of the food. God, how I hate that.

"Timmy, how are you enjoying your meal?" It's Mom...again. "Oh, you don't need to do that. I wanted to wash them." If you wanted to wash the dishes, then why the hell weren't they washed!

"Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"Well, I'd like to, but there weren't any clean dishes." It's hard not to sound a little smug about this. After all, she did ask.

"Okay." She walks back out. I roll my eyes. You'd think that she'd get the hint after all these years. Oh. Here she is. She can... She dumps a few cups into the sink.

"I almost forgot about these." Very cute.

XxXxXxXxX

Finally, the dishes are done and I can eat. I pile the remainder of the food on my plate and stick it in the microwave. Good grief, why can't things just be ready when they're supposed to be? I know there's nothing I can do about the speed of the microwave, but there should've been at least _one_ clean plate to use. Ah, the food is done. Great. I'm starving.

I take my plate to the kitchen table. Fork and knife in hand, I get to work.

"Are you enjoying your meal?"

She's sitting down across from me. She has the nerve to ask me this now, my mouth full. I swallow and shoot a contemptuous glare. "Yes."

I take another fork full of macaroni. "Anything you want to tell me about?"

"Other than the dreams, nothing."

"Are you sure?"

My fork starts shaking a little, like it may do something of its own accord. I somehow manage to stop it. "Very sure." I don't think I'll ever completely despise her, but my mother can be such a nuisance. I can pinpoint when this happened. It was a year after I graduated. She retired and started hanging around the house more. She thought she could go around the house making these "improvements". Guess who had to help her out? In hindsight, she really needed something to occupy her, like a hobby or an affair...or, better still, another job!

Dad still had a job, so he was able to escape this torture. This is not to say he hasn't done his own damage. For as long as I live, I'll never forget how he would seethe at seeing others with fancy things. He sat me down one day and told me, 'Son, life is rough, but it can be good if you're able to get nice things. If there's a girl in your class that no one can get, go for her. And if you get her, the victory will be that much sweeter.' He delivered that with a bludgeon.

I look up from my almost empty plate. She's _still there_. I stand up. "Do you mind if I go to the attic?"

"Oh. Want to take some things with you?"

"Something like that, yeah."

XxXxXxXxX

The attic: probably the only room of the house that Mom's boredom hasn't infected. God, this place is dusty. Clearing the dust out is a job in and of itself. No wonder she hasn't been up here. Here's where I'd find the photo albums and stuff like that.

I open one. Just pics of me and my parents. Nothing too ordinary...wait. It's a picture of me. I must be about ten here. God, why was I even wearing that hat? It's just me and a fishbowl...but I don't recall having fish. That is too strange.

XxXxXxXxX

My parents are sitting on the couch. "Hey. Did I ever have any pets as a kid?"

"Hmmm. Just a gerbil. Why do you ask?"

"'Cause I found a picture of..." I look at the snapshot. I must really be losing it, 'cause I could swear there was a goldfish bowl on the night table. Now, there's nothing. "Okay, there was a goldfish bowl in this picture not a minute ago."

"But you never had any goldfish as a kid." Dad's first substantial words of the night. Too bad it's pretty obvious...I think.

"There was a goldfish bowl..." I say it again. I'm not sure if it's to convince them or me.

"Oh, sweetie, you're just stressed. Maybe, you should stay here for a few days." And add to my stress? I'd rather suffer alone.

"But where is he going to stay, dear? It can't be his room." Would've been nice if they had muted that part of the conversation. After all, I know well enough that my room is now a library/game room.

Mom walks to me, perhaps to comfort me. I'm not sure. "I'm sure we can think of something."

"I don't think he should try the couch. It's not the same as it was." Dad tests it with both hands.

"There's always the pool table."

"But what if I feel the need to rack up? You know I play in my sleep."

"You really should see someone about that."

The picture in hand, I head out the door. Can't imagine what the point would be in saying 'goodbye'. They never paid attention to me before. And what a stupid argument that, most likely, will continue into the dark of night; pool tables, sleep disorders...

What an unfathomable curse it must be to become old.


	5. Tuesday Unwell'd

Shit.

I only managed to get a few hours sleep. Time that would have been better wasted in the comfort of my bed was spent pouring over a picture from my childhood. One that, I'm sure, had a goldfish bowl in it. Maybe...nah, but... Just maybe...fish might have something to do with the nightmares.

But there weren't any fish in my nightmares. Just rockets, flying and having my teeth yanked out. But then, how the fudge can _they_ be related!

This is just too heavy for me. It's certainly too much to think about on the bus ride to work.

Uhhh! The bus hit a pothole. I just know there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

XxXxXxXxX

Here I am, wasting my lunch in the break room. The day's been going like shit through a straw. Things must be lousy if that's the best I can do for a simile.

It's so hard to focus on anything. Then again, when you have problems like mine, focus is something not easily found.

For example, I got distracted by the colors of that damn box of detergent. I ended up putting too much in the washer and I had to clean up all those suds.

A little later when I was mop jockeying on the third floor, I thought I saw someone in the hall. Wait, let me correct that: I thought I saw a shadow of someone float by at the other end of the hall. I tried to sneak up on it. I was so quiet. I turned the corner in the hallway, and smacked the crap out of a cart of laundry. It's a good thing it was already dirty. Even so, Pevner called me into his office. Needless to say, he was not happy.

I got written up, which is a long way from deep trouble. As dull as this job can be, I need it. I am not losing this job, I am not losing my apartment and I am sure as shit not moving back home.

God, am I hungry. There's that vending machine, taunting me again. Why the hell don't they spring for one that takes dollars?

Ah, screw this. I'm going to the cafeteria. I'm not crazy about the food there, but I'm not crazy about starving, either.

XxXxXxXxX

Sitting alone while I leer and pick at the stuff on my tray. It almost feels like high school. I guess this is supposed to be stew. What kind of stew it is...I don't want to think about it. To think about it even a little bit guarantees that I will not be eating for a long time.

I choke down a forkful. Hey, this isn't too bad. Actually seems like something I'd get at a restaurant, only it's free. And if it's free, it can be all bad.

Before I know it, the stew is gone. I head back to the kitchen. I'm not up for seconds, but I just want to get this tray returned.

There's the lunch lady, overseeing the dishwasher. "Hey!"

"What is it?"

"The stew. It was...okay."

"Thanks. The secret ingredient is salt." I put the tray down. "While you're here, I need you to run some lunches up to the second floor. The guy I had twisted his ankle."

"How'd that happen?" I chuckle a bit.

"His leg got caught in the elevator doors." The laughter stops as quickly as it began. Ouch. She motions to the cart with 20 times the same lunch I had: stew, a light salad and a roll.

I take the tray and wheel it out into the hallway...

XxXxXxXxX

...which is just what I was hoping to avoid. Having to face Crocker again, especially when I'm going through things like mine, is very low on my list of things I want to do.

His room is just as sterile as anything. I look over to his bed. There he is, propped up against the headboard. What's the use of playing it quiet? We both know I'm here.

"Turner! Welcome back!"

"Yeah, hello." I motion to the food on the tray. "We got stew, a salad and a roll." I wheel the cart around to his line of sight.

"Sounds delish. Would you do the honors?"

A groan. "Do I have a choice?"

XxXxXxXxX

"So, how are things in dreamland?"

"Confusing. I could swear that these dreams really happened, but...I can't remember them happening, and they feel too real to ignore."

"Interesting."

"I thought I could just brush this off; I mean, I've got my own problems in the present. It's just that the pull of the past is so...strong." My eyes start to lose a certain feeling, like the lights have gone out. "I think I might be going crazy."

"Welcome to the club. You should be getting a membership card within a week."

Okay, my marbles may not all be where they should, but getting patronized by Crocker...that's crossing a line. That's it. I'm standing. "I might be going crazy, but you've been there for all these years. At least, I have the power to bring myself back."

He starts to chuckle. It grows louder, taunting me. Part of me wants to toss him to the floor, but another part remembers that I don't have a) the build of a linebacker or b) the ability to blame it on 'football instincts'.

"I started out on my little...journey, sacrificing my social life and my family, but I had often said to myself that I wouldn't get too obsessed; that I'd be able to maintain my existence without any problems. Before I knew it, I was snooping around schools and homes, looking for proof. Things just got worse and worse. Face it, Turner: I am your future."

I shoot him the biggest scowl I've ever given, and that's really saying something. What I wouldn't give to wipe that smile off of his face...no. I'm leaving. The man's a statue. I shouldn't try to punish him.

Besides, I imagine that being him is enough punishment for anyone.

XxXxXxXxX

"...and what did you do after that?"

"The rest of the day's a blur." I lean back on the bench. "Been getting that a lot lately." The park is just what I need to forget about today.

"You know, these memories you've been...'having'? They might go deeper than you think."

"Say what?"

"Come on. You can't remember bits of your childhood. It's driving you crazy as an adult." Ginny glances at a little girl walking hand-in-hand with her mother. In the girl's other hand is a doll; one of those Raggedy Patch-type deals.

"May I borrow this?" She slides it from the girl's hand, which is just as well. Sooner or later, she'd have dropped it. I don't think the brat was even listening.

She turns toward me and adjusts her glasses. "Now, Mr. Turner," she says in a mock-stern voice. "Show us on the doll where they touched you."

I fold my arms and stare at her. "Are you kidding me with that?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to add humor to an otherwise depressing scenario."

"And you couldn't toss me a knock-knock joke?"

A shadow casts over us. "I believe that you have my daughter's doll."

"Well, I--" Before Ginny can finish, the woman snatches the doll from her arms.

"Crazy bitch..." I can hear her mutter under her breath as she drags the brat behind her.

"Way to set a good example for your kid! I tell you, some people aren't fit to be parents."

"Speaking of that, I went to visit my parents last night."

"Oh. How'd it go?"

"Let me put it like this: it made me appreciate having my own place. My folks are just too...shit, I can't even think of something, they make me so crazy."

"At least your folks are still around to make you crazy." How could I forget? For reasons I can't even begin to pretend to fathom, Ginny's parents were terrified by Vicky. Seems an idiotic way to put it, but there it was. A couple of days after graduating from high school, they both died of heart attacks. They were stress-related, that much was certain, but no one could be sure of exactly what set them off. At least, they went peacefully. From what I heard about their home life, they deserved that much.

I see Ginny wipe away a few tears. She doesn't like to talk about it much. One would think that the expression 'That which does not kill you makes you stronger' was made for her. And the one-two punch of this and me rejecting her once and for all could help her move mountains.

"Yeah, that's sort of a blessing." I lean back and stare at the sky. Ginny seems to do the same. It's nice when you have a moment or two to drown out the problems in life.

I can hear the grass wafting in the breeze, which _must_ mean that I am losing it. A branch snaps behind me. This snaps me out of my daze. I whip my head around. A woman with a shawl on her head has her hand reached out to me.

"What the--!"

A whimper escapes her lips and she turns around. She darts through the park and the weird thing about her is that her hair looks pink. A hell of a dye job, if you ask me. I get up and rush past Ginny.

"Where are you going?", I hear her yell after me. I want to tell her that I don't know, but this woman...violating my personal space. She's got her nerve.

XxXxXxXxX

I get to the street and look around. Just people walking around, none of them with pink hair. Maybe I-- There she is across the street!

"Hey!" She's off like a shot. Why the crap did I yell? She wouldn't have ran if I was quiet.

She rushes by, not seeming to care who she knocks down. I hunch over and wheeze. I should be doing this more often so as to stay in shape. Yeah, chasing after touch-happy strangers is just what I need to improve my life. I look up slightly to see her turn into an alley. I've got her now.

XxXxXxXxX

I make it to the alleyway. I look up at the brick wall. Must be eight feet tall. I look down at the trash bins. She's not there. She's obviously hiding in one of them. I throw open the lids. Shit. There's no one here. I look around at the surrounding buildings. These doors are locked. There's no way she snuck into those places and climbing the wall? Forget about it. She must've been middle-aged; what kind of young woman wears a shawl?

All of a sudden, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" starts playing. No...freaking...way. Was Crocker right? What if this might be the work of...

...a child's toy. A young girl walks by with a stuffed animal. She pokes its stomach. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star".

This is getting too weird for me. My parents can't help. My acquaintance can't help. Not even one of my worst enemies can help. If anything, he's done more damage. I don't know what else I can do.

Wait, that's not true. There _is_ one thing I can do.

XxXxXxXxX

I walk up to the front desk. There she is at the phone, chattering away. I clear my throat.

"Turner. What are you doing here?"

I take a breath. "I'd like to commit myself." I never said it was the sanest thing.


	6. Wednesday

Now, _this_ is new. One of the orderlies is walking me down the hall. I'm on the...third floor, is it? I look over to the doors. 315, 313... Yep. Third floor.

My escorts are pretty big guys. I've seen them around from time to time. I know better than to mess with them. Put up a struggle with _these_ guys? Why don't I just slather myself in barbeque sauce and jump into a lion's den?

It's nice that they're protecting me. It can't be because I'm dangerous. You gotta look out for those guys. A lot of crazy people out there. Speaking of crazy people, was it really necessary for them to put me in a strait-jacket? I mean, it's not like I'm gonna attack anybody. These people know me. At least, I'm sure they do. I've only gotten to know a few people in the last year.

They've stopped walking. I guess this is my room. One of them opens the door and shows me in. I've seen so many of these rooms, it's hard to be surprised at the bare-bones decorum: a bed and a window. Maybe...just maybe, this won't be so bad.

I just hope I don't have a lobotomy to look forward to.

XxXxXxXxX

"Now, why have you decided to commit yourself, Mr. Turner?"

Here I am in Dr. Yancy's office. Thank God they removed the strait-jacket. I had the worst itch on my back. "Pardon?" I know what she said. I just need time to work on an answer.

"Why have you committed yourself? From what I've seen, you are one of the sanest people I've ever encountered."

I smile a little on the inside. If she only knew... "Well...doctor...there have been some things going on recently that I can't get a handle on. Usually, I'm a pretty together guy, but there are times when I just..._lose it_, you know?" I jump up a little for effect. This has the proper effect on her. "And I'm afraid that these things might aggravate my outbursts." Job interviews, visits with the principal and now this. Lying is seldom a good thing, but it _is_ one of the few things I'm good at. However, the key to a successful lie isn't so much believing it yourself...

"Interesting..."

...as it is getting the other person to believe it.

Dr. Yancy looks up from what must be my file. Her expression is unreadable; a fancy word for 'poker face'. "Well, Tim, I'm not sure of your exact history, but my staff and I will see that you get the help you need."

"Thank you, doctor." I extend my hand to her. She responds in kind and we shake. Cheesy, yes, but getting on her bad side might jeopardize my chances at wellness.

I get up and walk out.

XxXxXxXxX

I shuffle down the hallway. I can't imagine what will happen next. I look up and I very much regret it. At the other end of the hall is Crocker in a wheelchair. Even from this distance, I see a smile on his face. The guy pushing him doesn't seem to much care about any of this. No matter; it's none of his business, anyway.

"Stop here, please." The orderly - one I don't ever recall seeing here - obeys. He tries turning his head to face me, but can't seem to do it. Must be those muscle relaxers. "Do you think you could stand before me?"

"Whatever." I shrug and comply with his request.

"Will wonders never cease?"

"Yeah...right."

"The desire to know everything that happened in your past has driven you insane."

I fold my arms. "I'm not insane."

"Of course not. After all, why _else_ would you be here?"

"So you have your proof of...whatever the hell it is you've been trying to prove about me. I guess you win."

He raises his eyebrows...and given the groaning, it must be a pain to do this. "'I win'? Look around you, Turner. Look at me. I have no family. I can't go anywhere. I can barely move. What exactly is it that I've won?"

The guy at Crocker's rear shakes his head and pushes him away.

"I mean, there must've been some way I could've lost..."

It's a little muffled, but he continues on as he turns the corner. If only things had changed in this department.

I start walking again. Gotta clear my head of that...

"Whoa! Excuse me." I bump into what must be one of the residents. He looks like a cross between a country singer, an Elvis impersonator, a bum and a werewolf that's halfway to being human.

With a grunt, he drifts by me. Definitely want to avoid that one.

_"Turner, you got a visitor!"_

XxXxXxXxX

Now, this, I'm not expecting. Who would visit me? It can't be Mom or Dad; they pretty much stay out of my life, just as I like it. The only other person it could possibly be...

I look through the window of the door. It's Ginny! She's talking to an orderly. I can just make out what they're saying.

"Are you sure you'll be all right, miss? I mean, he's not in his restraints...not that he really needs them; he's been very docile..."

"Don't worry. The only person he's even a remote danger to is himself."

Ah, good ol' Gin. No pretense; just straight to the balls. I hurry back to my chair at the table. The orderly opens the door and she walks in, taking a seat across from me.

She's not smiling.

"Tim."

I give a slight nod. "Ginny."

She takes a breath. "I tried calling your apartment last night, but there was no answer, so I called here. I figured that you might've been working extra hours. You know what the receptionist told me?"

"What?"

"That you were the new meat!" She shakes her head. "I had to see it to believe it."

"Well, you see. Do you believe?"

"I remember this one time in high school when you jumped Trixie Tang's fence and braved attack dogs and security guards - both of which, by the way, she had installed just for you - to serenade her on a guitar you hadn't even learned to play. I once thought _that_ was the dumbest thing you've ever done. I honestly never thought you'd find a new number one."

About a minute passes after her little rant. I really don't know how to respond to that.

"What did you hope to accomplish with these luxurious new living arrangements?"

"Maybe get some perspective in my life."

"You know what I do when I'm stuck with bad memories? I ignore them; push them into the back of my mind, only occasionally letting them out by talking to people like you."

"I'm sure I'll get more help from these people than I got from you, Miss 'show us on the doll where they touched you'."

She scowls at me and stands up. "You know, there used to be a time when I would do anything for you, and I mean _anything_, but swallowing this bullshit is just too much. Goodbye!" She turns and knocks on the door. The orderly lets her out.

"Come back soon." The orderly looks at Ginny, then at me. "She's not coming back." I was trying to be funny just now, but the thing of it is I know she's really not.

XxXxXxXxX

I've had a lot of time to think to myself all day while I've been eating, getting examined and sitting in my room. I'm probably not supposed to be out, but I'm just too bored. This must be around the time that I'd be heading home. Good luck trying to get the rent out of me now, ya snake.

I know I haven't been the best guy to be around, but I'm just trying to live my life same as everyone else: with as much success and as little pain as possible.

I wonder if they've served dinner yet.

"Hey!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I seem to have trouble with bumping...into people." I'm simply dumbstruck. I've bumped into a woman, but I don't think I've seen this woman before. Her red hair flows down her back like water. Her turquoise eyes were made for getting lost in. She has a sweet-yet-stern expression on her face that could cut any man down to size. If I had set out to do more with my life, I could've been a poet.

I pick her up and she dusts herself off. "That's all right, I guess."

"Wait. You're Jasmine Fenton!"

"Yes. Should I know you?"

"Well, no. I mean, I saw your picture on this flyer and I was once an employee here, but now, I'm a patient."

"Huh. Did the stress of your job get to you?"

"Not really." I laugh a little. "Well, let's say that my past is like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and there are pieces missing. These pieces are memories that can help reveal the big picture, and I've had no luck finding them."

She checks her watch. "Well, I have to meet my ride, but I'd like to help. Let me give you some advice."

At this point, I'm ready for anything. "Shoot."

"Memories can be painful, but to forget may be a blessing."

I look at her for a moment. "That's pretty good."

"I wish I could claim it as my own. I heard it in a movie and thought it sounded good."

"Even so, that's deep."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, but I have to go." She walks away.

"Wait. Will you be coming back?"

She turns around, but doesn't seem to stop. "I can't really say. Maybe."

"Well, thanks for listening."

"Take care...uh..."

"Tim!"

"Tim."

And there she goes, the woman who was the nicest to me in this whole ordeal who managed to keep her clothes on. I'll probably never see her again.

I gaze down the hall and see Jasmine walk off. Her escort looks very happy to see her. Wow. They kiss. I've seen people kiss, but it's not every day I see an interracial relationship. He must've been very charming; none of that ghetto fronting I've seen from so many guys like him. The guy's wearing a beret, for Christ's sake. I can't imagine him being very fluent in gang signs.

Come to think of it, I remember reading about the name Fenton in the newspaper; a family of ghost hunters. I think that that stuff about ghosts is bunk. Of course, I wasn't about to tell her that.

My stomach is growling. First dinner, then I'll worry about my memories.


	7. Wanda Does It

Well, I've been here for a couple of weeks now. I honestly thought I could get some perspective on my life. All I've gotten from these people are dead ends, but I just know I'll find out something.

Unsurprisingly, Crocker's been no help. He's always rubbing it in my face that I'm staying here, even though he's as much a prisoner to his past as I am. Maybe, I'm over-thinking all of this. I just need to go back to the beginning.

Okay. I'm ten years old. My parents don't pay any attention to me. My babysitter is certifiably psychotic and...nyeahhhhhhh! Try again. I'm ten years old. I'm up in my room, bored to tears, so I'll...gahhhgh! Damn it! One more time...

XxXxXxXxX

"I'm ten years old. I'm at school, listening to one of Mr. Crocker's lectures..." The young man lies on his bed, staring into space and droning. Outside his room stand two orderlies, a bit older than Tim.

One jerks a thumb toward the window. "How long has he been at it?"

"About..." The other one checks his watch. "...three days."

"Yikes."

"From time to time, he mentions the guy in 217. You know, the one who goes on about fairies?"

After a brief silence, the two men burst out laughing.

One of them catches his breath and wipes a tear from his eye. "And you don't think _this_ guy...?"

"Anything is possible...well, almost anything." They walk down the hall, leaving the man alone with his thoughts. "I mean, what are the chances that fairies even exist?"

XxXxXxXxX

Privacy is something cherished by those who need it, desired by those who want it and abused by those who have it. However, the pink-haired woman walking down the street had managed to be careful; she valued privacy, but never let on that she did so. Whenever people asked about her, all she would say is that she "was just visiting a friend" and that she lived "far away".

This friend, to whom she so euphemistically referred, was so much more than that. Whether or not it was the right thing to do, she would do anything for him. Then again, she didn't have much choice. When you're a fairy godparent, you're pretty much bound to servitude.

She wasn't alone, though. At her side was her husband. Initially, they loved each other very much. Somewhere along the line, though, he would take to firing off insults at her. She could never truly figure out if it was the stress of the job or if he really stopped loving her. The fact that he would take to leering at other women suggested the latter.

The woman arrives at her building...across the street from Tim's. She heads in and walks toward the elevator. As she waits for the car, she reflects on the problems in her life. She loved both the men in her life, even though they were selfish and ignorant. Her words of reasoning were because she loved them so much, but they were seen as impediments to the fun times that the men believed themselves to be having.

DING!

The car opens and the woman steps inside. She gasps a little as the compartment moves. As time went on, the two of them got worse. Her husband's insults became more and more insufferable. There were nights where she'd wake up in a cold sweat and, more often than not, cry herself to sleep. The only words he ever offered up in his defense whenever this would happen: "Wanda, you're hogging the covers."

Her young charge wasn't much better, whether it was for instant solutions to even the easiest high school traumas or finding the newest, doomed-to-failure scheme into Trixie Tang's heart. (Ultimately, he found a way to cut out the middle man and just wish for a set of disposable Trixies. He went through them like a multi-generational family goes through toilet paper. Wanda felt particularly dirty after that wish, made via an inadvertent loophole. And the vomit always manages to rise whenever her memory drifts to the set of disposable Vickys.)

After he turned eighteen, Wanda had had enough. She quit fairy god-parenting, but, for all intents and purposes, she retired. A nice severance package of magic was her reward. Soon after, she divorced her husband. She could've retreated to an island paradise, but, while having lunch one day, she stumbled upon a revelation: they were just plain bad for each other.

The magic of her and her husband was making the young man too complacent and needy, while his obnoxious, juvenile demands had driven a wedge between the once-happy couple. Over dessert, she worked out all the possible outcomes in her head. Unfortunately, they all ended miserably. It wouldn't work out to have them together again like in the old days, so she had to find a way to make them happy.

The elevator door opens (It's a wonder the thing still worked in this old building.) and she floats out. It takes quite a bit of magic to switch between human form and fairy form. She pulls a key out of her pocket and opens the door. She closes it behind her and settles down on a couch she found on a curb. It wasn't too malodorous, thank heaven.

She did, however, use magic to provide the seemingly abandoned residence with a few furnishings. Some running water here, an electric stove there. In essence, she was living in the apartment rent-free.

The solution was to go back even further than the old days that would eventually turn sour. Back to a time where the three of them didn't know each other.

It wouldn't be easy, though. First, she'd have to reunite with her husband. If he hasn't squandered his severance of magic (having quit out of boredom), he could be an asset. After all, their magic was strongest when they were in sync. Wanda could never understand, however, why the magic was at full strength even in the bad times.

Also, she'd have to reach her charge in a somewhat vulnerable state; barely conscious and open to suggestion. Obviously, this would have to be a night job. Not that she wasn't open to the idea; planting those memories into his head, painful though they were, was an important part of the scheme. That Tim managed to write them off as bad dreams speaks to how successful the mind wipe was when he lost his fairies.

There would be time later on to work out details of her plan, but her stomach could care less. She was careful to use magic only in emergencies. Cooking hardly falls into that category. In fact, she liked doing things for herself without relying (too strongly, at least) on magic. It reminds her that she's alive.

Wanda wasn't particularly proud of the fact that she'd spy on Tim in his apartment and dial his number but never speak when he picks up. She usually had this big, apologetic speech prepared for him, but her nerve (and voice) ended up lost the moment she heard his voice. Perhaps, this was just as well; she might've come off just as loony as the people he works for.

An omelet seemed a weird choice for dinner, but she liked them...a lot. Morning, noon and night. It's not like she had to worry about looking good for anyone anymore.

She takes a bite of the meal and sighs. The look on her face is a confident one. She couldn't wait any longer. The plan must be implemented now!

"Mmmmmm!"

Actually, it must be implemented as soon as she finishes the omelet.

XxXxXxXxX

The room is darkened, the computer monitors providing the only light source. The light whirring of the machines makes the only noise. At the various terminals are a number of fairies, those who preferred to work behind the scenes as opposed to granting wishes in the world.

Standing over the terminal of a quite nervous fairy typing at the keyboard is an even larger, more imposing fairy. He leans over to get a better view.

"Are you sure she has no idea?", inquires the muscled being, his German accent as thick as fudge.

"She hasn't shown any particular signs of our knowledge."

"Excellent. One can't be too careful with these retired fairies." He chuckles a little. One good thing that the commanding fairy liked about retiring fairies: they may think that they have privacy, but he knows better.

On the computer screens are scenes of various locations: a tropical beach, an outdoor cafe, soaring through the sky...and an apartment where a pink-haired woman is enjoying an omelet. To the left of the view screen is a gauge. Wanda's gauge remains steady...

XxXxXxXxX

"Hello?" Wanda holds the phone in her hand. She looks out of her curtain across the street. The lights are off in the other apartment and there doesn't seem to be any movement. Has he gotten wise to her? She slams the receiver down.

She paces around and thinks. She rushes over to the phone book and throws it open. Her fingers scan the section in the white pages under businesses. While incognito one day, she followed Tim to work, sneaking off the bus before the last stop...at the institute.

She finds the number - 555-7568 - and dials.

Wanda clears her throat. "Hello?" She has affected a Southern accent. "I'm looking for an employee of yours, Timmy Turner." The hopeful expression on her face melts into one of surprise and sadness. "Thank you kindly. You take care, as well."

She covers her mouth. "Oh, dear."

XxXxXxXxX

To say that the retired fairy was not expecting her former charge to be in a mental institution was an understatement. Fortunately, Wanda was determined enough to revise her plans.

Step one: track down her ex-husband. In the years since they separated, Cosmo had become quite the ladies' man. Women consider men more attractive if they're jerks, but that wasn't all. Like the saying goes: small brain, big...pain in the ass. Other than his sense of humor, his reputation of being a demon in the sack had spread throughout Fairy World, causing several attractive fairies to change their opinion of him. For all Wanda knew, he was knee-deep in some chippy from high school.

XxXxXxXxX

It was a long way, but Wanda was able to find him. This took a bit more magic than she had planned, but it would be worth it in the end.

The place wasn't too different from where Wanda was staying. It was a Fairy World equivalent of the slums. She steps carefully along, not making too much noise. The pink-haired fairy reaches a door at the end of the hall. She tries the knob. Of course, it would have to be locked. She pulls out an old Discovery card, found in the halls of _her_ building, and sticks it in the door jamb.

The lock clicks open and she walks in.

XxXxXxXxX

The place reminded her of Cosmo: items scattered every which way and a peculiar, unidentifiable smell. She takes a step, which goes 'squish'. A deep shudder before she continues. A faint moaning sound becomes louder with every step. She opens the door slightly.

"Oh, Cosmo!"

No...freaking...way. She knows that voice. She can't quite make out the face, but she definitely knows that voice.

"What is it?" That's certainly him, the worm.

"You are everything the girls said and more."

"I aim to please."

"You certainly do," the female voice purrs.

Wanda is on the verge of vomiting. She stands up and takes a breath. She opens the door.

"You are just too...sister!" The satisfied fairy looks up from the bed.

The urge to blow chunks returns with a vengeance. Under Cosmo's sweaty body was that of Wanda's twin sister, Blonda. From sharing a womb to sharing the same bad taste in men. The fairy at the door longs for the good old days of five minutes ago when it was just some chippy from high school.

"Ooh. You have a sister? Maybe she could lend a hand?" The green-haired fairy turns around. His happiness departs. "Oh, it's just you. What do you want?"

"It's not what I want. It's what I need."

The blonde fairy covers herself up. "Well, what you need is to get lost. Me and lover-boy here are out to set a world record."

Wanda glares at her twin. "Actually, what I need is your half of the magic, Cosmo."

"Forget it." He gets out of bed, revealing part of why Wanda fell for him. "It goes where I go, and I don't feel like going with you."

She shields her eyes. "Cosmo, I really need this. I need to do something really big, and it takes two fairies to do it." Blonda can't help but chuckle. Wanda catches on to her tittering. "And could you please put on some pants?"

"Fine, Captain Bring-down!" He grabs the pants from off the lamp and obliges his ex. The fairy in bed moans disappointedly.

"Thank you. Now, you may never believe or understand how important this is, but I need your help. It's about Timmy."

Cosmo just stares at Wanda. "And what? I'm supposed to just be ready to go because of that? 'Cause you mention Timmy?"

"Think, Cosmo! For once in years, think! If it wasn't for him, we probably would never have gotten divorced!"

The green-haired fairy rubs his chin. "Yeah! And I probably wouldn't have gotten the chance to try so many fine ladies. I guess I owe that much to him. I'm in."

In spite of his reasoning, Wanda was just relieved that her ex-husband would be helping her.

Blonda, meanwhile, fumes as Cosmo gets dressed. Anyone with eyes and ears could see that the two sisters didn't get along well. She floats to Wanda and taps her on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but what right do you have to come in here like this and interrupt our fun?" Even though Wanda was older (by a couple of minutes), Blonda never respected her older sister. She made up for her youth by doing everything first: first to get boobs, first to date and, on the night of their junior prom...yes, another first.

Wanda puts her hands on her hips. "The rights of an older sister."

"Yes. A _much_ older sister." The pink-haired fairy turns around, her mind saying, 'I know I shouldn't, but when am I gonna get to do this again?' Wanda turns back around and punches her sister out. Blonda goes flying onto the bed.

Cosmo looks toward his king-sized mattress and finds the 'actress' sleeping. "What's with her?"

"Oh, she's just sleeping, you know? Resting up for later."

"Great! Let's roll!"

XxXxXxXxX

Step two: make her way to the institution. Rental car places can be easy to deal with when you have a little...magical persuasion.

"Are we there yet? Can't this thing go any faster?" The last couple of hours had been filled with statements like this.

"We'll get there when we get there", the driver answers through gritted teeth.

The passenger grabs the front of his shirt. "And why do have to have these stupid human forms?"

"Well, it seems to me that humans would be a bit less...I don't know, conspicuous than a pair of fairies."

"Excuse me, Miss I-know-more-than-you!"

Wanda groans and drives the car up the road. She looks out the window. The institute is coming up on her left.

"Splendid! We're almost there!" The first real note of elation in the trip.

Cosmo's arms are folded. "Oh, well, whoop-de-doo."

Wanda pulls the car next to a tree and shuts off the ignition. She turns to Cosmo. "Do you have it?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Your wand. Your severance package."

"Hmmm. I knew I forgot something."

A groan emanating from Wanda's lips becomes a full-on scream. Meanwhile, the green-haired man grins at her. He pulls something out of his coat.

"Gotcha!" She takes the wand.

"Now really, _really_ isn't the time for this."

The passenger shakes his head. "You're still the same old, stick-up-the-ass party pooper you were back then. No wonder we broke up."

Wanda scowls at her ex-husband. She looks mad enough to kill.

"What's the matter?"

She grabs Cosmo's jacket and brings him so close, their noses touch.

"Making those remarks long ago was a mistake, but letting you get away with them was an even worse mistake. I can't stop you from looking at other women. I've made my peace with that, but if you say one more cruel thing to me, I'll hurt you in ways that'll make you useless to a woman. Is that clear?"

All he offers in response is a frightened squeak.

"Is that _clear_!"

"Crystal."

"Good." Wanda lets go of him and takes his wand. She walks toward the imposing building, leaving Cosmo behind. Given their history, one could hardly fault the woman for leaving him behind. This had to go off perfectly, and if there's one thing they didn't need now, it was his bumbling.

One thing's for sure: when this was all over, Cosmo would need a fresh change of pants. The seat he uncomfortably sits in would have to be re-upholstered, as well.

XxXxXxXxX

Wanda slowly walks down the third floor hallway of the institution. It took quite a bit of magic to get her inside. She lamented this, for it would take all the magic she could muster to pull off what she had in mind. She stays close to the wall. A light creak. Her head snaps around behind her. Nothing's there. She continues her walk.

_"Pardon me for asking, but what room is he staying in? Room 306? Thank you."_

She couldn't help but feel a little paranoid. Not only were there unstable individuals within these rooms, but the threat of security guards appearing frightened her more than a little.

The pink-haired woman stops on a door. On it read the letters '306'. She peeks inside. Tim rests comfortably. She pads herself for her credit card, but, to her chagrin, she left it at Cosmo's place.

She stands still and grabs the wands from inside her jacket. Her eyes close and her form slowly disappears. The 'poof' effect that was so common long ago was but a privilege; a showy means of entering and exiting.

XxXxXxXxX

Wanda's body starts to reform inside room 306. She opens her eyes, takes a breath and sees Tim sleeping at the far edge of the room. Slowly, she makes her way to the young man.

She stands over him. "Hey, there, sport", she quietly intones.

_"What's that?"_

Wanda looks toward the door. A small light shines outside the window of the room. She ducks behind the bed.

The light moves away. The woman rises and breathes a sigh of relief. She runs a hand over Tim's head. "Oh, what has happened to you, sweetie?" Her voice is as gentle as can be. She tousles his hair a little.

"M-mommy?"

Wanda rears back a little. This seems a little strange, but whatever works. "Yes", she responds, on the verge of tears. "Mommy." In a way, she _was_ like a second mother to the young man growing up. "Tim...my. Are you happy with your life? Don't you just wish you can...you know, start over, again?"

He groans a little.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'm here." A kiss on his forehead calms him down. "You can get a fresh start. We all can. All you have to do...is wish for it."

"WAAAAAANNNNNNNNN-DDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAA!"

The room starts to rumble. The door flies off its hinges and into the room. Thinking fast, Wanda throws herself onto Tim and covers him as the door passes over them. It hits the back wall with a loud clunk.

Into the room floats...

"Jorgen Von Strangle!" He's not smiling.

"The one and only. Your magical reading went off the charts. I had a feeling that you'd try something like this. The retirement, the move to Dimmsdale, the apartment right across from Turner..."

The woman hides the wands behind her back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Save the naiveté. Your pinheaded moron of an ex-husband sang like a bird. You will not alter the past!"

"You don't understand. Timmy had a chance at a good life."

Jorgen extends his finger toward the patient. "A chance he completely threw away!" He advances on her. "You're coming with me!"

Wanda circles the bed, trying to avoid him. "I'm not going anywhere. This isn't right!"

"Not everything in life happens because it is right." The woman hated to admit it, but the heavily muscled fairy made a good point. Even so, she feels that she, her ex-husband and her former charge deserved another chance at happiness.

"You're right...but life is what you make of it, and I'm gonna make it better." She rushes to the young man's side. "Timmy, you have to wish for it now! While you're young at heart!"

"Nooooo!" Jorgen grabs Wanda's arms and drags her out of the room.

The woman thrashes about trying to get loose. "Timmy, please!"

"I wish..." It's a little weak, but it's Timmy's voice.

"Yes!"

"No!" Jorgen drops Wanda and lunges for the young man.

He turns a little. "I wish..."

"Please hurry!"

"I wish for...a fresh start." The wands fall from the woman's hand and spin to the ground. Moving in slow-motion, they hit the side of Timmy's bed. With those words, a bright light shines over the bed. It sweeps through the room and into the hallways. It soon envelops the institution, the city of Dimmsdale and the planet.

In short, the hole has been filled.


	8. A Wrinkle in Time

The sun shines brightly through the window of the nursery. In a corner of the room is a mini-mountain of stuffed animals, some reading "It's a Boy!" on them. The only sounds to be heard come from the mobile spinning around.

A green-haired fairy in a white shirt and black slacks floats in the air. "Wow. This is a really nice room." He turns toward the crib. Floating beside it is a pink-haired fairy in a yellow shirt and black pants. Tears well up in her eyes as she looks at the baby sleeping peacefully in the crib. She reaches her hand out to touch him, but draws it back.

"Wanda, are you all right?" With great worry in his voice, the male fairy flies toward his companion.

"Oh. I'm fine, Cosmo." She settles into his embrace.

"What are we doing here?" He looks down at the child. "Ooh! A baby! Coochie-coochie-coo! Coochie-coochie-coo!" The baby continues to slumber. Cosmo looks up at Wanda. "Is this our new godchild?", he asks, hopefully.

"No. No, he isn't. We've just gotten...lost, is all."

"Well, we ought to get going. For somewhere out there is a child...a miserable child in need of some magical help." Wanda looks at her husband, awestruck at the confidence in his voice.

The two of them join hands and poof out of the nursery.

The door opens and in walk a dark-haired man and a brown-haired woman. They look over the crib.

"Dear, I was sure I heard something."

"But there's no one in here, except for our son. He looks so sweet. I just know he'll always be." The woman reaches her hand into the crib and rubs the baby's chin with her finger. The baby sucks on it.

"Careful. You don't want his teeth to come in irregularly, do you?"

"Oh. Good point." She gently removes her finger from his mouth. The baby starts to cry. The woman picks him up and rocks him. "Oh, don't worry. Mommy's here. Shhhhhh. Mommy's here." Her calming tone has the desired effect. The baby falls back to sleep.

"Isn't it about time for his breakfast?"

"I believe it is." The couple walks out of the room and switches off the light. "Come on, Timmy. Time for breakfast."

XxXxXxXxX

The sun shines brightly in another room in another house, but it could mean less to the red-haired girl sitting on the bed. She sighs and mopes, allowing her eyes to glance toward the open door.

"Oh, she is so cute."

"Yes, she is."

The girl perks up when she sees her parents walking by, but slinks down when they pass her. A figure appears from behind the door.

"Oh, cousin..." The girl curls up into a ball on the bed. That sound can only mean trouble. Into the room walks a boy with an insane glint in his eyes.

"Dennis?"

He walks into the room, toward the scared girl. "That's the name, twerp. Don't wear it out. Your mommy and daddy are busy with the new baby, so we're gonna be spending a lot of time together." He licks his finger and sticks it in her ear. A yell escapes her throat as she lies down and covers her ears.

"Catch ya later...wimp." Dennis cackles as he walks out. Vicky sits up and starts to cry. A burst of smoke appears behind her. Out of the smoke fly Cosmo and Wanda. The girl rubs her eyes, and, much to her surprise, this is very real.

"I'm Cosmo!" He flies to the girl...

"And I'm Wanda!" ...as does she.

"And we're...fairy godparents!" The 3D-like 'FAIRY GODPARENTS' sign appears behind them.

She looks up at them, her violet eyes wide as saucers. "My fairy...godparents?"

"That's right, sweetie."

The young girl rubs her chin. "I wish for an ice cream sundae..." The fairies raise their wands. "...that's as big as me!" Before Vicky's very eyes appears a giant dish filled with ice cream and covered in hot fudge, sprinkles and a cherry. She takes the spoon sticking out and scoops a bit into her mouth.

"I'm gonna like having fairies."

"And we're gonna like you." The three of them hug.

XxXxXxXxX

And so it went that, for a number of years, Vicky and her fairies enjoyed a number of adventures: traveling the world, making her fondest desires come true and (of course) getting into trouble. Fortunately, things managed to turn out fine.

On the home front, Vicky was not only to put her nasty cousin Dennis in his place (with a little confidence and a little magic), but she grew to love her little sister on whom her parents lavished attention.

One day, her sister - who her parents named Virginia - was crying. Vicky tried soothing her with toys and games. After a while, the red-haired girl did the only thing she could think of: she talked to her. She wasn't sure if Virginia could understand her, but the ten-year-old figured it was worth a try.

"...this boy in my school likes pulling at my hair. I asked him why and he just said 'Because I felt like it!'. He has some nerve. I mean, what if me or someone else pulled on his hair? He'd feel the same way..."

The younger girl balls her fists slightly and raises her arms. "Yeah."

Vicky smiles at her sister's reaction. As she continues, her parents pass by the room and stand in the doorway. The dark-haired woman leans on her red-haired husband, who puts his arms around her. They smile and watch silently at their daughters; one talking and the other sitting with rapt attention.

XxXxXxXxX

Things changed in the life of the little girl. Vicky's godparents soon saw that she was just as loved and appreciated by her parents as Virginia. With little fanfare, Cosmo and Wanda left their charge. Not long after that, her parents felt that she could watch over younger children in addition to her little sister. A chance encounter between two women at the supermarket (their carts collided traveling up the same aisle) led to an unusual arrangement...

"Oh, Timmy!"

A brown-haired boy of no more than five hurries down the stairs. "Yes, Mommy?"

"I want you to meet your new babysitter." The woman opens the door and Vicky walks in.

"Hello, Timmy. My name is Vicky."

The boy looks up at the girl. "Hello...Vicky."

"Well, I'm sure you two are going to get along fine."

XxXxXxXxX

And they did. Whether it was his studies or just having fun, Vicky would always be there for Timmy. In fact, the Turners came to regard Vicky as the daughter they never had. From time to time, she'd bring over Virginia, who Timmy also warmed to. As time went on, the older girl couldn't help but feel that there was something happening under the surface of the 'play dates'...

Vicky's head rests on her palms. "You like him, don't you?" The redhead glances mischievously.

"Who?" Virginia sits on her bed.

"Timmy."

"Well, sure I like him. We're friends." The dark-haired nine-year-old straightens her glasses. Perhaps sitting too close to the television during cartoons wasn't such a bright idea.

"No. You _like him_ like him. I've seen the way that you look at him when you think he's not looking."

Virginia blushes ever so slightly. "Okay, maybe a little, but aren't we too young to get together?"

"I guess. There'll be plenty of time for that later, but it's something to think about."

The brunette looks off. "Maybe."

XxXxXxXxX

Around that time, Cosmo and Wanda were between godchildren and still looking. Their flight was suddenly delayed. A bright flash explodes behind them.

"WAAAAAANNNNNNNNN-DDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAA!"

The fairies started to quiver at the booming German-accented voice of...

"Jorgen Von Strangle!" They yelp in unison.

"Um...what brings you here?"

"Wanda! I feel I should be mad at you about something, but I'm struggling to remember what it is."

The pink-haired fairy stumbles for words. "Well, you see...it might be...uh..."

"We forgot to wish you a happy birthday! Happy birthday, Jorgen!"

"Hmmm. Thank you very much, I think." With a poof, he's gone. Wanda turns to Cosmo, a smile on her face.

"Why are you smiling?"

A light titter. "Jorgen's birthday isn't for another six months." Another girlish laugh.

"Wanda, is there something you're not telling me?"

She flies off, leaving a trail of smoke. "You're gonna have to catch me to find out!"

XxXxXxXxX

With the help of his "sister" and the guidance of his parents, Timmy grew into a confident young man. While not as impressive as one would hope, his grades were consistently good. And he was well liked among his classmates...

"Timmy! Oh, Timmy!" ...one, in particular.

The sixteen-year-old hops off his bed and opens the door. He looks over the banister. Standing in the living room is Virginia who, despite her glasses, has grown into an attractive young woman.

"What is it?"

"I'm headin' down to the mall. Wanna come with?" The brunette smiles sweetly. She could always count on her smile to bend the young man's will.

"Nah." He jerks his thumb toward his room. "I got this headache of a history test to study for."

"Oh. Maybe tomorrow, huh?"

"Well...sure. After all, tomorrow's Friday."

"'kay. See you later, Timmy." She turns away, a blush forming on her face.

The young man turns back to his bedroom and slams his door. "Damn this test!"

XxXxXxXxX

Several years passed in Dimmsdale. Everything remained as it ever was: same eccentric townsfolk, same old days. Of course, there were days that called for celebration, like a wedding. The bride and groom knew each other for a long time, but never really became romantically involved until entering college. From that point, they were inseparable...

"Isn't this great, honey?" A boyish-looking man carries his equally youthful bride over the threshold. "We've got a new home and our whole lives in front of us."

"Yeah. I can't believe your parents let you have it."

"I guess it was time for them to move on. Anyway, isn't it great? We can make a little money and, maybe, settle down, raise a family." A smile on his face, the man heads for the stairs.

"Um...about that?"

"What is it, Virginia?"

"Well, Tim, you know those times I've been waking up in the middle of the night and puking..."

"Oh, boy."

Outside the house, a pink squirrel gazes through the window at the couple and sighs. A green squirrel hops to her.

"Wanda, this house looks familiar. Why are we here?"

She takes his hand. "Oh...no reason. No reason at all."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I don't think anyone was expecting this; me doing such a dark story. It is my opinion that the events of the latter seasons would lead to this current situation (the main reason I interpolated certain scenes as the "nightmares").

As for this ending, I agree it's a bit over the top, but it's how I would choose to re-do the series if I could. And the arc of the story should be familiar to those who have seen _The Butterfly Effect_.

Thanks to the (suspiciously) few that read and reviewed and have a nice day.


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